In this house Where the walls exhale softly And the bed does my sleeping Like the door does my leaving Where the rain is my beating heart And the roof does my weeping I am little more than a fixture- Collecting dust, a glass figurine In this house
They say the scars of heartbreak make the heart grow stronger So what of the lonely heart is what I always wonder Does it shrivel away or become rotten or hollow What of being alone with no love to follow Everyone talks of love and hurt but what of emptiness I would love to even hurt because at least it's experience No one talks of being alone because there is only me Sometimes I feel I am the only one ever truely lonely
All the new flowers have gone. I see flocks of birds flying away, The waters of blue mountains Fall, rush and scold, are running Cold— wind, whispers and goes, Lonely as a tree without leaves.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.. I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awake in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft star-shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry.. I am not there. I did not die.